Clive Barker's Jericho : The Wounded
by Edgar T. Wont
Summary: A series of events that take place seven weeks after the end of Clive Barker's Jericho. I loved the story, & wanted to continue it. I've peppered in allusions to other Clive Barker works, along the way. Thanks to everyone who worked on the game, esp CB.


_Jericho: The Wounded _

_A Tale in 9 Parts_

_Note to the Reader #1: The game __Clive Barker's Jericho__ ended abruptly. For a game with such an elaborate narrative, we players were left wondering "So...what happened?". Perhaps they were waiting for a sequel to fill in the gaps, but it doesn't look like that's happening, sadly. So I took on this task, to the best of my meager ability...peppering in a few allusions to other Clive Barker imaginings along the way. I hope you enjoy it. _

_~Part 1: Of Those Still Amongst the Living~_

Of the many grotesque phenomena that had befallen the surviving members of Jericho Squad 23, the most troubling had been the refusal of their wounds to fully heal. They had battled with God's first sentient creation and had lived to tell the tale, but the physical effects of this encounter stayed with them. Church, a blood-magician and manic-depressive, bore a deep gash across her face which frequently teased at healing; sinewy strands of scar tissue would begin to form bridges at either end, and work their way towards the center only to rip apart if she attempted to speak or yawn or blink. This was the way with others as well: Rawlings' jagged laceration on his right hip, Black's mangled left arm and leg, and Delgado's open tears too numerous to count. Blood of every shade would drain from these places, if pressure was not continually applied in the form of tight wrappings. Stitching would not hold, as their flesh was too fragile in these areas: fibers of suture would merely slice through the very-nearly necrotic tissue, if any tension was put upon them. In this way, all the living members of Jericho Squad 23 bore visible testament to their ordeal in the realm that housed the First-Born; All, but their leader, Commander Ross. Strictly speaking, however, Ross was no longer truly living.

After the battle with the First Born, what remained of Jericho 23 had emerged in a vast oasis near the ruins of Al Khali. Al Khali had been a thriving city, once, but now was only known as a ghostly monument where one, if sufficiently driven, could spill masses of innocent blood to open the gateway to the First-Born. Waiting amonst Al Khali's remains, were many high-ranking officers and an army of soldiers from the Department of Occult Warfare (DOW): the agency to which all Jericho squads belonged. All these witches, psychics, clerics and gifted were at the ready to plunge into the Breach that lead to the First-Born's domain, the Pyxis Prima, at the first sign of anything making its way out. Amongst their ranks, Seers tracked 23's progress, and were aware of their plight. Backup had been halted at the mouth of the Breach, as containment had become the top priority and it was felt that sending in more than seven operatives would insult the prophecy. The DOW was not in the business of tempting prophecy.

As per lore, seven clerics had to enter the Breach and sacrifice themselves to close the passage to the Pyxis Prima, or else the world be lost. Given the word "sacrifice," when four members emerged alive with the Breach apparently closing behind them, the sense of profound relief felt by those waiting was tempered with a subtle doubt. However, unknowable to those who did not share their experience, the living members of Jericho Squad 23 had, in many ways, given themselves in closing that grim portal.

_~Part 2: _ _Biting the Silver Bullet~_

As dawn broke over Al Khali, the sea of titanium and steel almost seemed to come alive, gently reflecting the sun. Light bounced off turrets, cameras and tripwires, giving the site of countless massacres an eerie lightness.

Abigail Black was responsible for all of it. Upon completion of Jericho 23's ordeal in the Pyxis Prima, she quickly applied to take over the late Muriel Green's surveillance position at Al Khali. Had the DOW known what she would do with a black budget, they might have turned down her offer. As it was, not a month after she had assumed charge, the entire facility had been revamped and extended in all directions. Now, a mass of metals intertwined with the ancient city's ruins, like a newly grafted mechanical organ in a centenarian's body.

Despite the massive reach of the new facility, by design, it was still only run by a single operative. Black was able to control the entire facility via enhanced neurological interfaces which she had once used to better control her sniping. Now, she saw all of Al Khali, and in every moment of the day. Even in her dreams, the neural interface would allow her to be forcibly awakened if anything was amiss. This was the case when she had a somewhat expected visitor.

The hulking visage of Frank Delgado appeared to Black on four cameras which transferred their data directly into her occipital cortex. Behind him, two soldiers followed, white-knuckled as they shot frantic glances in all directions. A chuckle escaped Black's lips as one was reflexively, albeit needlessly, healed by the other, after the former tripped over his own feet. Before Delgado was able to scold them, she called to the trio over loudspeakers, chuckling,"No Tangos for miles, soldiers. Meet me in the main Hub." She watched as Delgado sent the two new recruits back to the perimeter of the base, before advancing by himself. She also caught the outline of a flask in his breast pocket.

When Delgado finally reached the control center, he was taken aback. Church was suspended from the ceiling, a harness around her torso and wires running from the back of her head into the mesh of metal framework above. The limbs on the left side of her body, still disfigured from the battle with the First-Born, were encased in tight, plastic shells to keep the former sniper from bleeding out. Her left arm, contorted at an odd angle (as if it weren't for the casing, it would curl in upon itself) was anchored to the harness via a rubber tether. Her left leg was also supported by a similar mechanism, but from somewhere in the dimly-lit abyss above.

"So, what exactly does it take for a stereotype to leave his bottle at home?" Black said as she began descending toward the ground, very slowly.

Frank broke his gaze and fixed his eyes on the floor.

"I haven't seen Billie. And if she were here, I'd know," offered Black.

"So, you know she's been missing. Why didn't you tell me?"

Black spread her arms out, the best she could, at the world she had created around her. She then flatly stated, "I have a job to do."

Frank stared at Black, hovering two meters or so above the ground, no longer coming down to meet him. "You're nuts. It would have taken five minutes. And what is all this? I heard the DOW wasn't happy with your spending, but I wasn't expecting some fucking freak show, Abby."

Black began ascending again, and encircling Delgado to one side. He rolled his eyes at her theatricals.

"This, asshole, is what is going to keep anything from coming out of the Breach," Black pointedly informed.

Delgado whipped around to face her, "Bruja, you crazy? The First-Born is dead! We saw-"

"We saw _shit!_" Black cut him off. Then, continued, "We saw It injured and we saw Leach carry him off. The next thing we know, we're in the middle of an oasis, 'Oh! Thank God some of us made it!'" she mocked her past self.

For a time, silence. Delgado kept looking at her with a gaze of disbelief. Black raised her right hand and rubbed her eyes as her harness lowered her to ground level. "_God _couldn't kill the First-Born. Why do you possibly think we did?"

Looking at off, at nothing, Frank meditated on what she said for a moment. Before he could respond, Black added, "We were supposed to die, Frank. The prophecy is very specific: Seven must sacrifice themselves to close the Breach. I'd say we were about five short."

Frank shook his head, "Wait, you think it's not sealed?"

Black just stared at him, and eventually shrugged, whispering, "I don't know. But Jones and Cole didn't die for us to take gambles. This has to be done. And it's an easy solution, when you think about it. Had Muriel had more fire power, maybe the cult wouldn't have been able to get away with opening it. An easy solution to avoid an awful problem."

"So, this is really about Jones and Cole?" Frank probed.

Black said nothing.

After a long while, Frank murmured an expletive, understanding Black's pain. All of Jericho 23 had levels of survivor guilt, but different ways to address it. He reached into his gear and produced a flask. It was shot out of his hand by a ghost bullet a fraction of a fraction of a second later.

"Go find Billie, Frank," Abby half-admonished, half-pleaded. As Delgado went to reunite with his two companions, he heard her call, "And send word when you find her."

_~Part 3_: _Once a Leader's Spirit...~_

Ross had been the squad's leader. Early into the mission, he was physically killed. But his soul lived on. He survived the ordeal by taking residence in the other members of Jericho; possessing one, then another, as situations demanded. This act, though invasive to all involved, created a unity in the group. It is still thought to have been the key factor in the mission's apparent success. Several weeks later, Ross existed in the bodies of dying prisoners shipped to a DOW base in Oslo, Norway, doing a cakewalk around the brim of insanity's deep ravine. This was, until, the DOW had given him a body.

Ross had been ordered to posses a strange entity. It had teal flesh, covered in tufts of fur which concealed barbs covered in smaller barbs covered in yet smaller barbs, and so forth. His new hands were bulky things, which were little more than convex claws made of a thick finger-nail-like material, which he was told were quite apt for burrowing. This was also the first time Ross had a tail; he wasn't yet sure how he felt about it.

The body had once belonged to an individual who had been part of a nomadic tribe of monsters. Each member of the group had its own fearsome, but strangely beautiful, features: a motley crew of the bizarre, searching for something named, "Cabal." In their covert pilgrimage, they were happened upon, in the foothills of a Canadian province, by a group of very frightened, very armed humans. The ensuing battle left many casualties, on both sides. Jericho Squad 04 had been nearby, and was sent to the area to investigate, finding the brain-dead body that Ross now inhabited. The Squad's support position was occupied by a Cryomancer, Sergeant Terry Chapman, who was able to preserve the body in a block of ice long enough for it to be transferred to the Oslo DOW base. There, Entrapments were carved into the blue-green flesh so that Ross could enter, but not leave it (as his possession ability, though valuable, was ripping him from any sense of reality). Ross now found himself in the field, on a mission to get acquainted with his new person whilst testing his old preternatural gifts of locating teammates and unburdening them of injury.

The mission was a simple one: find and heal an operative in Turkey, who had been wounded when an entity calling itself, "_The One-Hundred and Thirteenth" _had noticed the remote viewer and sent back a powerful blast of archaic energy, crippling the reconnaissance agent. As Devin Ross dug beneath the soil of the ancient lands, he noted that he never became short of breath, never hungry, never fatigued: a charming attribute of his new body.

After hours, maybe days, of digging, Ross happened on the agents' he was set to meet with. In minutes, the broken agent was before him, under the indigo glow of Ross' healing flame. The operative coughed as life returned to him, and picked himself up. Ross was thanked, and congratulated. The mission had been a success in all aspects. And yet, Ross felt unfulfilled.

Ross had a leader's spirit. He had commanded men in combat. No delusions plagued him that he could lead anyone, now: His current state was prohibitive of any articulation resembling human speech, and his ability to grasp weapons, open doors, or any feat requiring hand dexterity was beyond him. He would still serve, but never again would he be whole.

Ross, once-more, took to the dirt. He was to rendezvous with an exit vehicle in three-days' time. Shoveling through mother-earth, he let his instincts guide him, as he always did. Unbeknownst to Ross, however, his instincts were not taking him far from his extraction point.

_~Part 4: Once Upon a Time in Tibet~_

Delgado was no stranger to the Far East. Before his days in Jericho, he had spent years in various parts of the Pacific Rim and Subcontinent, searching for hidden wisdom and buried, Shamanistic knowledge. He was now looking for something far more precious, but just as lost. Church was his girl, for a time. Upon exiting the Pyxis Prima, things quickly disintegrated between them. Delgado became increasingly withdrawn. He began seeking escape in visceral ways; numbing pain with potions and powders that had little to do with magic, but much to do with basic human neurophysiology. He retreated into himself, and away from the person whom he felt was most important in the world. Having isolated himself further, on an official leave-of-absence, by the time Frank had heard news of Church's AWOL status, she had been gone for weeks.

His higher-ups tracked Frank Delgado down and cut short his leave, pointing out that he alone had an understanding of that would allow him to track her. Remote viewers were unable to get a fix on her, as all they could see is countless spells cast from spilled blood, with no specific location. The only image they were able to make out that may lead to her was a secluded, spiritually energized place that had seen a great deal of misery.

Delgado set out to find Billie with two others: a Healer named Jon Harris and a Non-Cartesian who only went by the handle BODO ("Boe-Doe"), both inexperienced and hoping to make a good impression as to make headway into joining a Jericho squad. Delgado wasn't very happy with the prospect of two newcomers slowing him down, but he had been in their position once, and understood its importance. Even so, he got around them by ordering them to stay in a single location and be on alert for his call, if he needs help. This was done to keep them out of his hair, whilst giving them a sense of importance. Besides, the Non-Cartesian would at least allow him to travel the globe in minutes.

Tibet was the next place Delgado decided on exploring, having first checked Al Khali. Church had often spoke of it and the tranquility of Buddhist teachings: far different from her own upbringing. The cult she was raised in despised Eastern thought, and so Billie gravitated toward those cultures after her deprogramming, overseen by Father Rawlings.

Frank Delgado did not blend in amongst the people he encountered. His height alone would have made him stand out, but with the addition of his seeping wounds and encased right arm, he could go nowhere unnoticed. He eyed his metal sleeve: beneath it lived a Chicksaw flame spirit named Ababinili. It fed off of him, and in return served him, if the occasion arose. The heat emanating from the contraption helped in the Himalayan climate.

The shopping place was of the most interest to Delgado on account of the number of people. He went vendor to vendor, with a picture of Billie, replaying the same fruitless conversation. For days, nothing remotely resembling a lead emerged. Temptation to fall back into his spiral of self-abuse often rose in him, but he managed to suppress it since the encounter with Black. It was as he struggled with the lures of better-living-through-chemistry that a merchant stopped him.

"The girl. She's not what you're looking for," said the old man. Delgado looked at him, curiously. A long gray beard matched the seller's hair and many laugh lines covered his leathery face. A distorted smile emerged from under his mustache as he said, "What you really want is to forget this current suffering. To, maybe, know secrets of things that themselves are secrets. I believe I am right." The seller leaned forward. "Am I?"

Delgado shifted his weight. In truth, there was something to what the old man had said. He had always desired knowledge. He currently desired escape.

"What's your pleasure, sir?" asked the merchant.

Delgado paused. How tempting, it was, to be free of all his burdens and merely pursue pleasure. In truth, even pain would be a release for him at this stage. Life had become numb. What obligation did he have to Billie Church? To the DOW? To anyone?

The merchant produced a box from under the table. Delgado scrutinized it: a cube that was...black metal? No, perhaps ebony (though ebony never reflected so brilliantly). Lifting the cube, Delgado studied it: A puzzle box. And yet, more, it seemed. The craftsmanship was outstanding, and a feeling emerged from within him: the same feeling he always got when on the brink of uncovering mystic truths.

"This is no ordinary box," Delgado stated, quite assuredly, yet seeking conformation.

"Very astute, sir!" flattered the merchant.

Delgado took note of how the seems in the box were not truly visible, but could be felt, fleetingly, under his fingertips. He looked into his own reflection in the box, then up at the old man.

Smiling, the elder offered, "If you want it, it is yours."

Delgado turned his gaze back to the box. He began sliding his thumb around the top, at which point a pain he had never felt before overtook him.

"Ah, what are you doing?" shouted the sergeant, as Ababinili trashed wildy, in its casing.

"Quit it, man!" Delgado pleaded, but to no avail.

_THUNK! _

A piece of the metal sleeve had been pried open by the spirit living on Delgado's arm.

_THUNK! THUNK!_

And it had freed itself.

Delgado vainly attempted to fight Ababinili off as it overtook his body, engorging him in flames. He swatted and rolled around the stone road as his clothes burnt onto his body and his never-healing wounds spat endless splinters of charred blood. He could hear the havoc of the people in the market place. People were running, shouting and dousing him with water that did nothing to relent the spirit's onslaught. Delgado rose to his feet and looked around for the first time, taking in the horror on the faces of those surrounding him. The merchant, alone, did not seem aghast, but rather pensive.

"A knife!" Delgado cried. "Somebody get me a knife!" Not knowing why Ababinili had turned on him, and rational thought being blunted by the ceaseless scalding of the flames, Delgado had resolved to simply cut his arm off. The merchant produced a machete and tossed it to Delgado, who dropped the box in order to catch it. Before the machete reached his hand, Ababinili had ceased. Delgado stood, heaving breaths, eying the luminescent spirit encircling his arm, which glanced at the box, then at Frank, then at the box, with the eyes of a hunted animal.

"Do it now! Before it attacks again!" urged the merchant.

Delgado dropped the machete and kicked the box back at the merchant, though in doing so he felt the skin on his inner thigh slough off. He let out a short gasp of pain. "No thanks, pendejo. I think my friend feels we've had enough trouble with fucked up boxes."

The merchant stooped and picked up the configuration. As Delgado limped away, he called, "Well, then, if you and your friend ever become...separated...I'll be sure to seek you out."

Delgado stopped and turned to face the merchant. "Don't worry, cabron. As soon as I find my girl, me and some pals will come looking for you." At this, Delgado turned back and began to walk away, though Ababinili kept focus on the merchant and snarled twice, just before wrapping its host in a protective flame, so that his burns would not evolve. Bystanders stared or averted their eyes.

Entering the tent that was being kept by his teammates, Delgado collapsed. Moments later, he awoke to the site of Harris resurrecting him. After stating he was alright several times and filling the rookies in, Frank was informed that that the Remote Viewers at the DOW had sent them an image. Delgado looked at BODO's interface screen, and recoiled a bit when he made out the canine-like form of a creature with a white and blue snout.

Cursing himself, Delgado informed the Non-Cartesian where their next stop was. Moments later, a portal appeared and they jumped through. As he spun through and around strands of land, air and water, waiting to be caught by his destination, Delgado reflected on what the merchant had said, and resolved that it was wrong. Pursuing experiences of the flesh and Shamanic abilities had never been his end: the latter was merely a mean to it, and the former merely a hindrance. Church was his end, and his beginning. His omega, and his alpha. All hope for his peace lay in her well-being, for no bleeding wound, physical or otherwise, could be too much to bare if she were there to bare it with him. Though deeply worried, this thought made him smile for the first time in what seemed like years. Then, like a spider falling onto its web, the three travelers reached their goal.

"The Mojave," Delgado whispered.

_~Part 5: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Canaan~_

In his earlier days, Father Paul Rawlings had been a man of faith. He possibly still was. The terrain that surrounded him was teeming with life, in profound contrast to what he had been exposed to as of late. Trees and shrubs danced in the frigid wind rolling off the Mediterranean, lit by a idyllic quarter moon. Adding to the peace was the isolation: only flora and fauna accompanied the priest, at present. Perhaps, too, God was there, though Father Rawlings had begun to grow skeptical.

As a military man, Rawlings understood the risks of combat and the crosses commanders would often have to bare upon completing missions. He now bore wounds to this end, and a cross for the demise of Xavier Jones and Simone Cole. The former of the two was a man of intellect. Rawlings felt hesitation upon his recruitment to active combat, but held his tongue when Devin Ross volleyed for his addition to Squad 23. Cole was on duty directly because of Rawlings. He knew her skills would be needed, though she may not have been able to handle the psychological burdens. Even so, he took that risk, having faith that He would intervene, even if just a little, and protect the girl. But He didn't.

Rawlings had pushed this thought around in his head for the weeks following Operation Godseal. Had Cole's atheism cursed her? Had Jones' faith been lacking? Had Rawlings demanded too much from God? All these things danced in his head, though the Priest knew that no answers would be arrived at that offered any satisfaction. This wasn't his first waltz with one of the world's oldest philosophical conundrum, but the nagging question of why bad things happened to good people had never been so relentless in plaguing him.

Father Rawlings limped on, favoring the wound on his right, and recounting miracles witnessed and blessings granted, to try to make the world seem not so dark. That's when a metallic sheen caught the Priest's eye, and in the distance he saw an abomination.

There was no mistake. A creature far more hideous than anything witnessed in the Pyxis Prima stood before him, just twenty yards away, if that. It did not approach him, however. It made no movement to suggest hostility. That being said, his stomach tightened as the moon's light illuminated its glistening, stretched white flesh and various bodily modifications; a synergy of muscle and mechanisms. Attached to its many belts were various tools for cutting and rearranging all aspects of the human anatomy. Father Rawlings knew of this creature. It was God's Last-Born, created in a divine fervor on the Seventh Day, when He is falsely said to have rested. Its name was Agonistes, and it was sculptor of the living.

For seconds that seemed like hours, Rawlings remained silent. Agonistes shifted its weight and moved its head about, slowly, perhaps contemplating how it would reconfigure the Priest. Several times, Rawlings saw the creature lightly finger its implements of recreation with one hand, whilst its other swirled and took postures as if creating a map and tallying, respectively. When trying to decipher its movements grew too torturous, the Priest broke his silence.

"You are Agonistes, are you not?" Rawlings barely choked out. "I have no business with you. I'm passing through to Palestine on a mission for the United States Department of Occult Warfare. I'd appreciate it if you allowed me passage."

The creature, looked up and met Rawlings' eye. So terrifying was this for the Priest, that he let out a whimper and a warm tear streamed over his cold cheek. Agonistes then removed its many implements and lay them upon a level stone, so that they were ready for use. It then beckoned the Priest, asking, "Shall we begin?"

Rawlings ran back, firing his pistols, Faith and Destiny, at the monster, though he knew it was in vain as its hulking shape quickly approached him. Before long it had come upon him, and knocked the guns from Rawlings' hands. The Priest did not give up, however. Though his guns were lost, Father Rawlings still had his will, and was not going to be changed without a fight.

Rawlings first plunged left hook into the side of the vile thing, which had stunned it (though more for shock that the aged man would even fathom fighting back). This was followed by an elbow to its throat which had more of a physical effect, though not much. It grabbed Rawlings' shoulder and pummeled his face with its free hand, which had been encased in a metal cage, to the end of breaking several bones- nausea overtook Rawlings for a moment, before his animal instincts once more took hold. He barely shirked the next blow by lunging forward and he sunk his teeth into his assailant's neck. To Rawlings' astonishment, the flesh was sweet; he spat it out feverishly and shoved the behemoth off him.

Agonistes feigned a charge and drew off Rawlings' balance to the left, exposing his hip, forever injured in the Pyxis Prima. It capitalized on this, and sunk its hand deep within the gaping wound. Moving passed muscle sinews and tendon attachments with practiced accuracy, Agonistes took hold of the Priest's femur and tore the bone from the hip joint such that only soft tissue held the priest's leg to his torso. Rawlings let out a guttural cacophony that was not recognizable as a sound made by man; Agonistes knew the sound well.

Rawlings fell toward the monster, grabbing at the cage about its left arm with both hands, and using his weight to twist it about the elbow. Agonistes hissed at this and tried to shake him off, only to have the Priest throw himself at an apparatus behind Agonistes' head. Father Rawlings swiftly pulled himself behind the dark thing, encircling its neck with his left arm, his right arm adding stability. Though it thrashed about, it could not shake the Priest for some time, eventually falling backwards atop of him, stealing his breath and breaking his grip.

Agonistes then twirled around, and placed its hands about the throat of Father Rawlings, aiming to take him into unconsciousness. Rawlings struggled with it for a brief time before resorting to clawing at the creature's face, tearing the skin clean off of God's creation. It recoiled. He did not relent. The Priest raised himself upon his good leg and dove at Agonistes' belly, steadied himself, then twisted the thing off its feet and plunged it head-first into the ground. He took a step toward it, in hopes of maintaining the upper hand, only to remember too late that his right leg was no good. He fell hard, sweating, spitting and pale. As blood continued to pour from his wounds, Rawlings asked God for mercy, then blacked out.

The sound of scraping blades woke the Priest seconds later. Agonistes had retrieved some of its horrible tools and was slowly nearing him, readying itself for its grim art. Rawlings drooled a bit as he grit his teeth, his heart beating in painful fury. All was lost, surely, had it not been for the light of the moon, bouncing off one of Agonistes' blades, creating a glimmer near the Priest's right hand. He seized it with resolve. Father Rawlings had retrieved Faith.

Training his pistol on the terror approaching him, Father Rawlings let off a shot. It made Agonistes stumble back a step, but it began to advance once more. Again, Rawlings let off a shot, and again it paused then resumed its march. Rawlings shot a third time, catching the brute in its knee, forcing it to a crawl. It still came upon him, slowly. He tried to fire again, yet found only the noise of an empty chamber. It was but feet away from him, its knife raised high, when dawn broke. Agonistes lowered its arm, and sheathed its weapons.

"What is your name?" asked Agonistes.

"Rawlings. Paul Rawlings."

"Paul Rawlings," spoke Agonistes, "you are truly blessed." It turned from the Priest, and walked off.

Rawlings stared for a time, then surveyed his body to find his wounds all nearly healed. He did not understand what had happened, this night or in nights before, and accepted that he never would.

He stood, and looking around, Rawlings quickly found Destiny. As he began to inspect his weapon, it struck him that he was far from where he had been upon meeting God's Last-Born. He was now in the middle of the desert. He was now at Al Khali, and there was a storm brewing.

_~Part 6: Bad Blood is Thinner Than Water~_

Wilhelmina Church was born in the same year that her parents' cult lost their savior. Her name was chosen for its Germanic route, meaning "desire." Desiring Church.

When the cultist Nix had been overthrown, his followers formed two sects: the first escaped into society to await his return, and the other dug the Mojave, hoping to find his place of burial as to resurrect him. The former of the groups were all dead now, murdered by Nix's own hand upon his first return. The second faction, the one that Church was raised in, never got to see their savior's return, and now awaited his third coming. Church resolved that Nix would find no former followers if he were to return again. As she lay atop the roof of one of the compound's two guard towers (having scaled it undetected under night's cover), she tried to block out all the harm that had come to her by the hands of those devout.

As the sun broke the horizon, Church rehearsed her plan in her mind's eye: At 7am, the guards in the towers would change: one would climb the 13 foot ladder, the two would look out, then the old guard would climb down. During this time, the sect would be outside, doing chores and duties, and the guard towers would be seen by all. This is when her assault would begin. She'd enter into the guard tower through the window as both looked out, and take them both down. She'd then trigger an explosion in the second guard tower, which she had set up two nights ago. At this distraction, she'd sprint to the cult's weapon's store and set those running for weapons aflame with her magic. The heat of this would surely set off yet another explosion, destroying the weapons inside; the thick cement which kept her from blowing up the weapons store from the outside _should _protect her from any blast, she reasoned. From here, she'd disappear again atop the buildings. The followers would either try to escape (to find their car batteries missing), or hold up in one of two fortified areas in the compound. From their, grenades and her binding magic would finish the deed. It was a solid plan. Church grinned as she thought of seeing the aged faces of those that had driven her to suicide attempts fall dead by her hand. She had been studying the cult's routines for weeks, wanting to make sure that all beheld her vengeance from beginning to end.

She reasoned that her revenge would be a just one. This cult had exploited her, in her youth. Mentally, they tortured her. Physically, she been exposed to multiple horrors, including being chained in a small room with starved baboons for days at a time, inches away from an awful death. The thought of the bizarre creatures, with their gnashing maws and brightly colored snouts and asses, made her cringe, even now.

As Church lay flat, out of view of all, she watched the position of the sun. 7am was nearly upon the group, along with their end. Her first order of business was to cut her own flesh and use her blood to cast her spells. She gracefully pulled her knife from its hilt and drew the edge across her right palm. This was more for ritual than anything else. The blood oozing from the well-bandaged gash on her face would suffice, but would not give her the same satisfaction. As she finished the slice and squeezed her fist, an image flashed into her mind, giving her a moment's pause.

She rested her freshly carved hand atop her chest and felt her pulse quicken. She had seen the face of Arnold Leach: the leader of a _different _cult. He was the leader of the cult that had opened the door to the Pyxis Prima. For the first time since the inception of her plan of righteous retribution, Billie Church asked "Why am I doing this?"

A panic attack seized Church as she realized that she had honestly plotted the murder of a small town of people. In her mind, she had suppressed doubts that any of them were innocent, but what if she was wrong? How many people in this community never seriously harmed anyone? She thought back to her youth and could pick out a handful of avuncular figures that had never directly done anything wrong to her (or to anyone, as far as she knew). She let out a silent gasp, as she realized how close she had come to such a horrible feat. Then, again, the image of Arnold Leach appeared to her.

Churh realized, only now, that the person she really hated, more than anyone, was Leach. He had exposed her to the worst things she had ever known and he was locked away, where she couldn't harm him, So, she was targeting the next best thing. Something tickled her cheek. She rested her knife by her side and reached up to her face to find that blood had been soaked through the gauze and had been dripping down onto the wooden roof, perhaps through it, as she was lost in thought. A barrage of heat and steel pierced her from below.

Before she had time to access her situation, wave after wave of bullets tore through her. The guards had found her out. She rolled off the tower, falling arms first onto the desert floor. Coughing up blood, she looked to the sky: 7:04am...maybe 7:05.

"Get the fuck away from her!" she heard a familiar voice shout in the distance. Moments later a fire spirit roared above her head, protecting her. Delgado soon took her up into his arms. "Heal her!" he commanded one of his comrades, whom she did not recognize. A blue flame encircled her, but she could feel it doing very little.

"I can't. This is beyond me. You need somebody with more experience." said Harris.

"Fuck, man, try harder!" Delgado urged.

"Skin is easy! Her body is full of holes! I do _not_ know how to fix that!"

"Then get on the horn and find somebody who can!"

"Like who?"

"Like Rawlings!"

_~Part 7: Star-Crossed Soldiers and the Doomed at Al Khali_ ~

Delgado landed in the heart of Al Khali with his companions, and Billie Church in tow. Looking up, he witnessed purple and black clouds swirling above the ancient city. Lighting complimented the fear-inspiring sight, while hot winds kicked up sand and small bits of rock which tore at his eyes. He looked back at his comrades.

"Listen, you're sure Rawlings is here?" Delgado asked.

"Yes, sir. He's in the main observation Hub," responded the Non-Cartesian, gesturing just feet away.

Abigail Black's voice cut in, barely audible over the whipping of the desert floor on ruins, "Jesus, Frank, is that Church? Get her inside!" The steel-enforced doors of a hallway leading to the Hub opened. Before Delgado could advance two steps, Black added, "And get the kids the hell out of here before they're fucked."

As he continued toward Black's location, Delgado turned back and nodded toward them to get out of the area. Harris opened his mouth to protest, but Frank sternly said, "Now." In moments, the two young-bloods were away from Al Khali.

Long before Delgado and Church entered the passage into the Hub, Rawlings had set off to meet them. Black had informed him of Billie's condition, and without a second's pause, he took off, reciting prayers to Asclepius, Eir and under his breath and in original tongues. He heard Delgado's heavy-footed sprinting long before he saw them, and it was far worse than he expected. Billie meekly gasped for breath, too rapid or shallow to fill her lungs (which, in all likelihood were collapsed or filled with blood anyway).

"Some bastards from where she grew-"

"We don't have time for that now! Lay her down!" Rawlings cut Delgado off.

Delgado nodded, lowering Church to the ground. In his fright and urgency, he let fall his usual curtain of confidence and ego, looking the most frail he ever allowed anyone to see him; at least since his childhood days, when he learned the pitfalls of such emotional honesty. Had Rawlings looked up, he would have been reminded of a maimed, orphaned child he saw during a tour in Vietnam, but as it happened, the Priest was focused on his fallen kin.

Tilting his head back slightly and inhaling a slow, focusing breath, Rawlings extended his hands over Church. A blue light began to emanate from them and then from her. Soon, the glow spread over her entire body, growing brighter and more vibrant, pulsating with a healing energy that mended torn sinews and pierced organs. For the first time in the better part of an hour, Billie Church was beginning to breath deeply, again. With each second, dying cells burst back into life and vessels reformed ruptured branches. As the blue flame grew brighter, nerves remembered synapse and pathway, feeling and movement.

Delgado began to feel warmth return to his face, not realizing how much blood had drained from it, as hope began to manifest. Rawlings, however, remained immersed in his task; not allowing any distraction, no matter how inspiring, to sway his concentration. Just as Billie Church began to speak the words, "I...I think I'm...I'm going to make it," something particularly horrible happened.

Whether it was Rawlings suddenly stopping his brand of mending to cough up a fountain of blood over a string of expletives, or Ababinili ricocheting about within its half-broken metal sleeve, no one can really say: but Delgado hadn't, at least not at first, noticed Billie Church silently being torn apart by invisible hands until no recognizable piece of her remained.

When he saw the last threads of her fall from her composition, leaving but a gelatinous mass of fluid and bone fragment on the ground, Delgado tried to scream. "Stop!" he mouthed, at whatever was doing it, but he only managed to produce a broken, withered moan of unspeakable anguish. The geyser of blood spewing from Rawlings stopped in time for the priest to run over and catch Frank as he fell forward, reaching into Billie's remains, as if trying to pull her back from the grave.

"What the _fuck _just happened?" Black blasted over the com system. Neither present was able to make out any semblance of language, though Frank did have a primordial grin of utter terror on his face. Looking at Rawlings, Delgado saw the priest shaking his head and repeatedly mouthing the word "Why?" Not knowing what to do, Frank reached down and pried open the mended sleeve of Ababinili, momentarily forgetting how to operate the mechanisms as designed.

The flame spirit rose and darted behind them. They turned in place, barely stable on their feet to see where Ababinili took off to. A massive beast became visible but a few paces from them: human, but a beast nonetheless. Black swore over the speakers and began letting loose a barrage of bullets upon it from automatic weapons mounted into the walls, but they seemed to pass through him. Ababinili ran its claws through his flesh and tried to light him afire, but the towering thing just scoffed in what seemed to be disappointment and swatted at the flame spirit. He stood heads above the two soldiers, and was gowned in a ragged robe which looked to be knit from white hairs. Underneath it, various tattoos could be made out: judging by the ink's tint, the oldest looked tribal, the youngest seemed to be similar to Runic. Arising from his head were flames whose embers, Father Rawlings spotted, occasionally took the shape of the Aum, a sacred symbol in Hindu faith. The man did not appear to be Indian, however, and though his markings spoke to origins in the Germanic culture or the Ivory Coast, the great man couldn't be placed into either category. As to who he was or where he came from, his image gave no clue. Across his chest lay the _Gye nyame_, a marking which meant "Nothing Happens Without God's Permission." Slightly baring his teeth under his great beard, he then set Rawlings and Delgado on fire.

Ababinili quickly returned to his host, protecting Delgado from the flame. Rawlings writhed in agony, and Frank, frozen, did nothing. Thankfully, a second creature emerged, bursting into the fray through the metal underneath. It tackled the unknown man from behind, toppling him. The fire engulfing Rawlings ceased, but he was deeply charred by it. This new entity ran over to him. Placing a hand above Rawlings, a blue flame emerged and healed his wounds. "I guess my instincts are better than I thought," Ross spoke.

"Get the hell out of there!" the speakers blared with Black's voice. Delgado and Rawlings took off, as Ross stayed behind to buy them time. As they ran, they called back to Ross to try to come with. Looking over their shoulders, they witness their captain's new body being torn in half at the waist.

Before Rawlings could stop in his tracks to fire at the man killing his squad members, Delgado's hand pulled him forward. The two kept running.

"Ross?" asked the Priest hopefully.

Delgado shook his head, "No."

Multiple doors had been sealing behind Rawlings and Delgado as they made their escape. Black had been trying to slow the pursuer down, with some success, by also placing mobile turrets in his path. Though bullets didn't seem to harm him, he apparently was still bound by _some _physical laws. This, and the late Commander Ross' ability to sneak up on him, gave Black some hope. She raised up to the ceiling and peered down as the two entered her chamber, shutting the last set of doors behind them. She felt a great deal of fear rise in her, as she realized how easily this man's magic bested her security measures.

"Who the _fuck _is that guy?" spake the Priest.

"No fucking idea, but he's on his way. Here!" called down Black as a slew of explosive weapons lowered to the ground. "Bullets don't seem to hurt him at all, and the explosives I've tried on him don't seem to do shit, but this is the best shot we got."

"I'll try to drain him while Ababinili does his thing. You keep at him with ghost bullets, Black." Rawlings instructed. Black made a sound of frustration, but agreed.

The strange man beat on the door for a while, shearing a hole in the metal. He peered in through it. "Shall I continue, or will you just open it, already?" he boomed, heartily. Ababinili set off through the hole, and danced atop of him. This seemed to burn him badly, but he persevered.

"Liverpool?" Rawlings whispered, stunned. The man heard.

"Ha! Very goo-" but the man's sentence was cut short by a ghost bullet, guided by Black, hitting him in the eye, then the forearm, then the throat. He cried out, black blood spurting from arteries, only to shake in place and have his wounds healed. He breathed in and out once. "I was brought here by way of Liverpool, but I really don't remember my time there." He swatted at the door, making the hole larger. Delgado summoned Ababinili back to his arm for a short while, as the physical pain of having his parasite away from him was too intense and he needed a short time to ease the suffering (a pitfall of the Shamanistic bondage).

"I am the One-Hundred and Thirteenth" he swatted again, "I have no 'father,' really. I am from the Riga Regnum, of which your kind know nothing." Rawlings had began draining him of his life for some time, but it only seemed to mildly affect him.

"My 'father' plucked me from it – an act done one-hundred and twelve times before, by one-hundred and twelve other summoners" he stated as he grabbed hold the corners of the torn metal and began pulling at. "Having to live a life as one of you is a bore, I admi-" he spoke as another ghost bullet cut him short. Again, he shook and healed himself, this time with much more difficulty. More annoyed than anything else, he offered, "Listen, I know we're having a fine time getting to know one-another, but once I get in this room, I'll be a proper berk." He plucked a piece of metal from the door and crouched through his passage way.

Delgado again released Ababinili. The One-Hundred and Thirteenth took a knee and roared in pain as a simultaneous ghost bullet from Black had caught him. He grit his teeth and ran towards Rawlings, who had been stripping the giant of his health. True to his word, the massive human was a wretched thing to behold in full-on battle. He plucked up Rawlings and cast him across the room, smashing him into the wall. Rawlings fell slouched, but began to regroup himself. The great man shook and was once-again whole.

The One-Hundred and Thirteenth then leaned back and produced great green claws from his own hands. He ran towards Black, then leaped, catching her around the torso. Twirling, he plucked her from her technological wrappings. She cried out and attempted to keep firing at him, but it was a futile pursuit. Channeling a sound from planes unknown to humans, the gargantuan man hurled Abigail Black at Father Rawlings. Delgado screamed in a hatred known to but a few many humans, as he witnessed the two disintegrate into moist, red mist and limbs on impact.

The One-Hundred and Thirteenth then shifted his scowled gaze up at Ababinili and grasped it with his strange talons. Delgado ran at him, tackling him, but by then the flame spirit had been extinguished by a red clay that poured from the One-Hundred and Thirteenth's mouth.

As the visitor to this plane reached through Delgado's chest, he thought he could here the last of Jericho Squad 23 say, "Yeah, but you should have seen us before."

_~Part 8: Deus ex Machina, Amicus ex Mortis~_

A blue light surrounded the members of Jericho Squad 23. There they stood: Billie Church, Abigail Black, Paul Rawlings, Frank Delgado, in various parts of the Hub's main chambers. All wearing their gear from their time in the Pyxis Prima. All wounds healed. _All _wounds.

"Billie!" cried Frank, as he ran over to his once-lost everything. He lifted her and attempted to place a long-sought kiss, only to be punched in the face then kicked in the groin. He dropped her.

"No, not exactly," spoke Commander Devin Ross from Billie Church's lips.

"Holy Shit! Ross?" cried Black. She ran over to Billie's body and placed a hand upon the shoulder of her fallen leader.

Paul Rawlings briskly walked over to them. "Before we throw a damned party, is anybody curious as to what the hell happened? Who was that?"

"No clue," admitted Ross.

"Great, now you mind getting the fuck out of the woman I love?" Delgado spoke, limping toward him. Rawlings pointed at himself, and Ross jumped in.

"That still doesn't explain what just happened, or why we're still here," Black reminded, as Delgado and Billie embraced, whispering pledges and apologies.

Ross thought a moment. He heard Rawling's voice state, "I have no idea what any of that was or meant or why we're here." Ross shook Rawling's head in ignorance. Black looked to Delgado and Billie to see them shaking theirs. That's when a voice came from on high.

"I know how," said Simone Cole, from somewhere in Black's vast ceiling full of wires, gears and mechanisms. The members of Jericho looked up to see her pale figure, dressed in combat gear, slowly lowering herself on a dangling chain. When she was in sufficient distance from the floor, she dropped down.

"What the fuck is this?" Black and Delgado said in unison.

Delgado opened his metal sleeve to find Ababinili quite healthy, but refusing to attack the completely alive Simone Cole. Promptly, Delgado then closed his sleeve and spoke in a voice not his own.

"Paul, Devin – it's me, Jones. I'm still with you." Billie unsheathed her katana, sprinted and held it to Simone's neck.

"Get the fuck out of him!" Billie hissed, but a moment later, Simone was across the room, far from her katana, having used her ability to alter time through various mathematical manipulations.

"You two remember when you got me to quit my desk job and join Jericho?" Jones spoke through Delgado. "That night we celebrated by going out to eat. I had never tried sushi before and it turned out I had an allergy to something the _Itamae _used in the house roll: ended up nearly passing out because I couldn't breath, before either of you took me seriously."

"Jones...you're alright," spoke a pleasantly shocked Ross. But Black still looked skeptical and eyed Cole.

Cole raised her visor and addressed Black. "Given the multiple times you and I have had experiences unique to just one-another, it is difficult for me to isolate any one, single event that may may stand apart for you as having particular emotional resonance such that it would slake any concerns you are having toward the veracity of me being whom I claim to be."

Black grinned warmly at her old bunk-mate, "That'll do, actually." Black smiled a little wider, "You know, I memorized Phi to 25 places hoping you'd send me a sign that you were alright, wherever you were."

Cole tilted her head. "Only 25?"

Black let a laugh escape.

"Cole, how are you here? Is the Breach open?"

Cole smiled at Devin Ross, "No, sir. I cannot speak on the status of the Breach, as I couldn't begin to calculate the likelihood of our success. However, when we were all separated, I calculated the likelihood that I should find myself dead with neither you nor Rawlings there to revive me, so I wrote a crude backup of my own system: a Retrieval-Conduit, or "Ret-Con" for short. I based it on the one I was using when all members of Jericho would die – knowing that particular script was so often successful."

"What do you mean, when we'd all die?" asked Billie.

"When we'd all fall in combat, and time would reset to a point sufficiently earlier than the battle as to allow us to tackle the situation again, hopefully overcoming it. Surely you noticed that, at times, we'd retrack the same land and fight the same enemies repeatedly, getting killed over and over until successful." Cole looked at her blank comrades faces. "Goodness," sighed Cole, realizing none of her fellow Jerichos had appreciated her genius during the time in the Pyxis Prima.

"So where have you been?" asked Black.

Cole offered, "The code only goes into effect when all members of Jericho are downed in combat. Until this moment, the Squad has been successful at avoiding death."

"Barely," Ross heard Rawlings reflect.

"Listen," Jones spoke, "Not that I'm not eternally grateful, because I am. But why am I like Ross?"

"Yes," Cole thought for a second, "I'm not fully certain, but my best guess is that, given my predilection for efficiency, I coded in such a way as to best insure the survival of the transfer of Jericho members from within the Pyxis Prima to the outside, had only some of us survived in battle. Thus, an emergent behavior was generated, utilizing your psychic abilities, and only brought back what was minimally needed to preserve you as a persona, sadly failing to bring back the complete person."

Ross pleaded, "English!"

Slightly annoyed, Cole stated, "The code brought back the mind, but not the body, sir."

"One out of two ain't bad!" Jones heard Delgado mock, becoming his old self.

_~Part 9: _..._Always a Leader's Spirit ~_

On account of the threat posed by the One-Hundred and Thirteenth, the DOW refused to send the Non-Cartesian to retrieve Jericho Squad 23, even though the stranger hadn't been seen for a long while. The group sat on the rescue copter, speaking of what they had in store, given what they had been through hours before.

"What was that thing?" asked Church, finally. All had been to caught up in each other to address the elephant in the room. Billie clarified, as to not skirt the issue any longer. "The guy who killed us."

"I do not know. But topographic tracings reveal him moving away from Al Khali at great speeds: the trajectory is consistent with a number of places, however, most of note is an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean, with exactly 666 children in its hold."

"Oh no..." Ross heard Rawlings moan. Jones soon echoed the sentiment.

"I know what this is," voiced Jones through Black. "This is very bad."

The faces of Jericho seamed to be overtaken by somber fear. As their helicopter glided over the vast sands surrounding Al Khali, a familiar feeling of dread sunk into all of them. Ross noticed this at once, and reclaimed what he once was.

"Alright!" Ross' voice cut through to his team. "I want Jones and Rawlings working on a briefing. Abby, I'm going to want to move out in T minus 24 hours, so you better be fully reacquainted with the left side of your body by then. Cole, don't you stop tracking the progress of that ship. Delgado and Billie, you'll be in charge of finding us two more members: I think we're all agreed that a little more space to breath with Jones and I jumping around would be good for the group. I want status reports in one hour. Questions?" Jericho didn't have any, but looked resolute and, for the first time in a long time, full of a fire for life. "We've been through a lot. But here we are, together. A team, as always. We've had our mishaps...our share of obstacles, but nothing worth accomplishing is easy. Something tells me we're the only experienced squad not on active duty," Ross grinned. "Alright, Jericho, let's do this!"

Jones jumped into Rawlings, and they thought hidden conversation about forgotten lore. Billie opened a display screen, and she and Delgado surveyed the ranks of DOW operatives, young and old. Cole, once more, disappeared behind her HUD, her eyes darting around, occasionally punching keys on her forearm-mounted reality interface. Abigail Black practiced assembling, disassembling, loading and unloading her rifle, all with the use of only her left hand. All this happened, as Ross looked out the eyes of prisoner lending his body for Ross' flight. Surveying his squad, the commander took pride in what he had once more become.

_Note to the Reader #2: This is how I would've liked __Jericho_ _to end__, I suppose...the adventure continuing. With Jones also possessing people, a sequel could feature co-op. Hell, maybe even "vs" modes, depending on how they'd deal w/ Cole's time-altering power. Oh well...enough with "How cool would it be's." Then again, I guess that's one of the pitfalls of any fandom. Thanks for reading. _


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